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ABBEY & IMBRIE 

CENTENNIAL 

FISH STORIES 



Published by 

BAKER, MURRAY & IMBRIE, Inc. 

New York, N. Y., U. S. A. 



FEB -6 1320 



)CU56i762 



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THE stories contained in this volume 
were selected from 2,980 manu- 
scripts submitted from all over the 
United States and abroad. There is no 
similar collection in existence anywhere 
to our knowledge, and these stories are 
published purely to promote the whole- 
some pleasure and fine sportsmanship of 
angling. The manuscripts comprising 
this book are the sole property of 
Abbey & Imbrie and, under the copy- 
right protection to the book, cannot be 
reprinted. 



Copyright, 1920 

ABBEY & IMBRIE 

New York 



Table of Contents 

Catalogitis 7 

Alexander Yearley, 3rd 

The Romance of Two Fish 8 

Albert Benjamin Cunningham 

Redsides on the March 10 

John Kaye Gill 

The Prize Bass and the Super- Angler 11 

George V. Triplett 

A Real Sportsman 13 

A. K. P. Harvey 

Fish Crazy 15 

E. A. Brininstool 

One Way of Going Fishing 16 

Mrs. Edith Elkins 

The First Tarpon 18 

Charles Warner Mills 

The Doctor's Catch 20 

Paul C. Kuegle 

White Scar's Last Battle 21 

Orin P. Thorson 

The Offertory Bass 25 

Carl D. Schunck 

War Minnows 27 

Frederick L. Coe 

The Jugger Jugged 28 

Emery Alton Peffley 

The Twilight Trout 31 

Robert B. Peck 

A Reward of Merit 33 

E. E. Shoemaker 

The Desecration of the Pool 35 

T. McB. F. 

The Legend of the Ouananiche 36 

J. Crawford Maxwell 

Fishing for Health's Sake 40 

Paul Fugler 

Tarpon on Fly Tackle 44 

Lieut. R. W. Swearingen 

A Brief for Luminous Baits 45 

Hubert C. Norton 

At the Other End of the Line 47 

M. M. Scheid 

Golf Balls as Bass Bait 48 

E. F. Lapham 




"He picked up one of the jugs, uncorked it and took a smell. 
— From "The Jugger Jugged." Page 28. 



Catalogitis 

By Alexander Yearley, 3rd 

There is gloom among the medical profession, 

There's an ailment which they've failed to diagnose, 
With humility they make the sad confession 

That they know its name but can't prescribe the dose. 
Among fishermen this ailment is prevailing 

And its symptoms anyone can eas'ly tell, 
You can pick the man who suffers from this failing 

But there's nothing known to man to make him well. 

When you see some men in earnest conversation, 

Books in paper binding strewn on ev'ry side, 
Books which largely are made up of illustration 

(And a list of prices also do provide) 
Showing rods and reels and lines and flies and spinners, 

Artificial baits and plugs of ev'ry kind — 
And all of which are guaranteed as winners — 

Some with hooks in front and some with hooks behind ; 

When you see these men in thoughtful consultation 

As they make a list of plugs they'd like to try, 
See them give the matter deep consideration 

When selecting what they really aim to buy, 
Then you'll know they have acute Catalogitis 

And on fishing they are practic'ly insane. 
It is far, far worse than any other — itis, 

For they're suffering from "Fishing on the Brain." 



The Romance of Two Fish 

By Albert Benjamin Cunningham 

MY friend, I am an old man. This white hair — you would 
not think it was once black as midnight. It has been 
so long ago. 

I can't work much any more. See that hand? All 
drawed out o' shape. Rheumatism. Hurts when I try to do any- 
thing. So come spring, I dig me a few worms and kinda go off 
down to the crick. 

There is a tollable deep hole down there, an' the bank is good 
to set on. I bait my hook an' throw it in an' wait fer the floater 
to go under. 

But some days they won't bite. But I don't go home. The 
boys don't need an old codger like me putterin' around. I just set 
on the bank an' think about things. 

An' it was once when I was settin' there — it musta been about 
four o'clock. I could hear Jessie — that's my son Tom's wife — a- 
callin' the cows. 

Yes, sir, I was jest settin' there thinkin' when I saw this thing 
begin, that I'm goin' to tell you about. I saw the beginnin' of a love 
affair 'tween two fish. 

Right away I hear you say this is a sure-enough fish story. 
The love of a fish ! But — my friend, I am an old man. An' what my 
eyes see they see. 

A little lady bass, slim like a chestnut leaf an' so white I could 
almost see through her! This purty little thing lifted in the water 
not far out an' stood still as one o' our evenin's up here. She re- 
minded me o' some slip of a gal, jest restin' a minute. 

An' whilst she was hangin' there, up from the deep hole comes 
a bigger one, thick an' black, though you could see he was only a 
young 'un, because he was not so very big himself and because he 
was kinda awkward, like he was embarrassed. 

He comes up to my little lady bass an' sidles up to her like he was 
tryin' to make love to her. But what did she do? She turns quick 
like, flips him in the side with her tail, and swims off, indifferent. 

"Turned him down, by Jiminy!" I cried, watchin' him to see 
how he took it. 

There was nothin' for me to do up to the house that night. 
Tom, he done all the work. So I thought about my little lady bass. 
I hoped she wouldn't give in too easy. 

8 



I was settin' on the bank the next day when up she floats 
agin an' hangs there, indifferent like, but lookin' out o' the corner 
of her eye, I thought. 

An' by Jiminy, didn't he come after her? I hadn't liked him 
the day before. He 'peared too overbearin'. But he was different 
now; kinda meek an' humble. I hoped she wouldn't turn him 
down. 

But she did. Before he even got up to her, she turned, 
dropped, an' made fer the deep hole, quick as a flash. He dropped 
down, too, but plumb discouraged. I could tell by the way his 
gills worked. 

"Keep after her, Sonny," I encouraged. "You'll land her yit." 

An' he went after her, but slow like. 

I didn't git back fer nigh a week. My knee hurt me, an' 
Jessie thought I'd better stay in. I wanted to work about, but 
Tom said he could do everything. Jessie was unravelin' some- 
thing, an' I got her to let me do that, makin' the yarn into a big 
ball. 

I got to thinkin' about my fish. Had he got her yit? They 
might be gone, time I got back. So one morning I said my knee 
didn't hurt any more, an' got my bait can an' started off. 

Out o' sight o' the house, I let down an' limped a little. It 
wa'n't quite well yit. But I got to the bank an' set down an' 
waited. She might a gone away, o' course. 

Then I saw somethin' comin' down toward me. It wa'n't 
one, but two fish. I looked agin. There was my little lady fish 
comin', lookin' slimmer an' purtier'n ever an' beside her was Sonny. 

"He got her," I crowed. "By Jiminy!" 

They come up close to the bank. What was they doin'? Then 
I saw. Down on the bottom was a smooth place, bigger'n your 
two hands, an' the little lady swum up onto it, as shy and purty 
as you please. 

"Spawnin!" 

An' off to one side like a fierce watch-dog was Sonny, keepin' 
watch for her. A yaller willow blow fell into the water and scairt 
her. Quick as a flash she was by his side; an' he was all fierce- 
eyed an' threatenin', but not at her. He was guardin' her. 

She actually went up an' rubbed agin him, like she was sayin' 
"My man." An' he, though wondrous pleased, looked fierce agin. 
Then she slid back up on the bed. 

My friend, I am an old man, an' I saw it. 



9 



- Redsides on the March 

By John Kaye Gill 

TO see that wonderful thing again, I would give my best 
rod; but I had that one opportunity, and it will probably 
never return. Yet the "redsides" throng up Scappoose 
and Milton rivers annually to their spawning-grounds. 
A pool forty yards long is sometimes so crowded with them that 
the bottom is completely hidden; and I have floated a worm over 
these myriads with never a strike. 

This is the story and the simple truth. 

I was fishing the north fork of Scappoose early one morning in 
May, a mile above the last farm, and had a dozen "Clark" trout 
already. I was trying out a long bend where the stream had cut 
deep into the farther bank — a promising situation. On my side a 
gravel shore, gently sloping, ten yards wide and fifty long, gave 
me plenty of room for my back cast. I was very busy. The 
trout were rising at nearly every cast. I glanced up the stretch 
at whose head a little fall roared above the murmur of the current 
at my feet. On my side the fall was next to nothing, but gradually 
rose to three feet at the farther bank. I was pleasantly occupied, 
but thought that under the fall I would be sure of a bigger fish 
than I had taken. Again I glanced upstream, while my flies were 
in the air, and noticed something queer where the fall touched the 
gravel. The gray pebbles were hid by a dark belt that curved 
around the fall into the pool above. 

I fished a few more casts and again looked upstream. Then I 
had a real thrill ! The dark belt was doubtless the spoor of a bear 
which had been wallowing below the fall, and "seeing me first," had 
floundered out around the fall into the next pool. So I moved with 
great discretion for the next few yards. 

As I approached the dusky belt I saw that the stony beach was 
entirely hidden by a solid column of fish, extending six or eight feet 
from the water's edge at the shallow end of the fall, and curving into 
the river above. Many fish were leaping and scrambling over that 
part of the fall, which was but a few inches high, and their struggles 
sprinkled the horde of land travelers, which moved at a snail's pace. 
I am sure the outermost fish would have been half an hour out of 
water in making this transit. 

On a trail on the far side was my brother Jim who had been 
watching my fishing farther down, but hidden from me some 

10 



minutes. He was just emerging from the alders. I waved my arm 
excitedly, calling him to come and see this strange sight. At my 
gesture the column broke in wild disorder. Hundreds of redsides 
were flapping back into the water. I dashed among them and threw 
twenty or more farther up the beach. In five minutes these were 
dead. 

The column I had surprised had doubtless begun the ascent in 
the night, intending to be safe in upper waters before daylight. The 
fish were packed as closely as buns in a pan, and were making their 
way over the gravel, all at a uniform pace — not one foot to the 
minute — by using their ventral fins as feet. They leaned a bit 
toward the water. If one had fallen on his side at the left flank of 
the procession, he must have died. It would have been impossible 
to right himself; but not one had lost his balance. 

And thus certain fish of no great swimming power, surmount 
obstacles in their way to the spawning beds. I have asked many 
anglers on our "west side" streams, but none has ever seen this 
marvelous sight. 

I hope to camp beside that fall sometime — a week if need be — 
and watch night and day for a similar hegira; but I fear I lost my 
one opportunity to observe carefully every circumstance of that 
wonderful migration. 



The Prize Bass and the 
Super'Angler 

By Geo. V. Triplett 

THEY should be joyous retrospects, these little tales of fish 
and fishermen; but sometimes the decrees of fate will it 
otherwise. Of all the sad words of tongue or pen — but 
let the facts speak for themselves. 
We had spent kings' ransoms on our twin cabins up at the lake, 
not to mention dingy boats, minnow tanks, acetylene lamps, 
refrigerators, rods, reels, lines, bugs, plugs, wobblers, wrigglers, 
and a lot more things that impoverish anglers. We were a joy- 
loving, fish-loving, open-air-loving contented bunch of rejuvenated 
old sports — bankers, lawyers, doctors, preachers, et id genus omnes; 
all bubbling over with enthusiasm, plus. 
And then entered the villain. 

11 



In every lake, you know, there is one more or less mythical 
denizen of the deep. We had one up at Kingfisher — a big, elusive, 
uncapturable Micropterus salmoides, which had broken more lines 
and shaken off more tangoes and wobblers than the oldest gray- 
beard could recount. Nearly every Kingfisherite had hooked and 
lost this doughty warrior, and nourished the spark of revenge deep 
in his soul. 

Thus matters stood when, one soft midsummer holiday, in 
deference to our esteemed president, affectionately called Uncle 
Jimmy, we invited his nephew, Algy Trimble, up to the lake to 
have luncheon and wet a line if he cared to do so. Algy said he 
would be glad to interview the lunch hamper and drink a bottle 
of pop, but that he had never caught a fish in his life; not even a 
little bullhead or sunny. He abhorred worms. All boats looked 
leaky to him. It gave him tonsillitis to get his feet wet even in 
July. He was a lingerie expert; not a fisherman. 

Algy arrived at the lake just before luncheon hour, nattily clad 
in white flannels, and after the avuncular greeting, as our guest 
de luxe, he needs must take Uncle Jimmy's new rock-elm rod and 
try a cast off the boat dock. Algy demurred, but Uncle Jimmy 
showed him that no worm was involved in the process, only a fuzzy 
inanimate contraption already fastened on with a swivel. Thus 
was Algy initiated into the Waltonian mysteries. He tripped 
gingerly across the gang plank, gripped the rod with both hands, 
made a wild sideswipe, and, mirabile dictu, dropped the bug within 
two feet of an old tree about forty feet out in the lake. Almost in- 
stantly there was an angry swirl and Algy's reel began to buzz 
like a dentist's motor. "You've got him," Uncle Jimmy shouted. 

"Hold on — keep your rod up — don't run. D !" And Algy 

held on. The springy rock-elm rod dipped and curved, and Uncle 
Jimmy exhorted, admonished and swore. Algy was so scared he 
couldn't move. Finally, after Uncle Jimmy had threatened to in- 
flict every form of mayhem on him and even to kill him in cold blood, 
Algy managed to grab the reel crank and drag his struggling cap- 
tive alongside the dock. By this time half the club had rushed 
down to the battle-front and one of them forced a landing net into 
Algy's palsied hand. Algy didn't know any more about manipu- 
lating a landing net than he did about looping the loop in a mono- 
plane, but he made another wild sideswipe and flung a big flounder- 
ing object out on the dock floor. Then — but why resurrect the har- 
rowing details? There he lay — a great dripping bronzed veteran, 
eight pounds to an ounce, the biggest black bass ever caught in 

12 



old Kingfisher, the one grand prize on which the hopes of every 
Kingfisherite had been centered for lagging months. 

And Algy — Algy, who couldn't impale a house-fly on a pin- 
hook — whose most strenuous purpose on that eventful day was only 
to nibble a sandwich and drink a bottle of pop — Algy had caught 
him! 

And today his royal remains hang resplendent in Algy's lady- 
like boudoir, with Uncle Jimmy's fuzzy-looking bug dangling 
from his mighty jaw. 

Such are the tricks of destiny. Such the irony of fame. 

There are still many Brothers of the Angle in our town, but in 
the popular estimation there is but one Super-Angler. 

His name is Algy. 



A Real Sportsman 

By A. K. P. Harvey 

THE tackle was a curio. A twelve-foot bamboo pole, tipped 
with four feet of heavy wire supporting a single yard of 
stout chalk-line armed with three cod hooks, from each of 
which dangled a generous strip of bacon rind for bait. Such 
was the "tackle" with which the old "Cracker" outfitted me when, 
having concluded the consultation for which I had been sum- 
moned to Florida, I expressed a desire to pass the time before my 
train came in the indulgence of my favorite sport of angling. 

Arrived at the fishing-grounds in the old man's rickety boat, 
I was ready for the first cast. 

"What is the most approved method of operating this er — ah 
—tackle?" 

"You -all jist sozzle the bait ahead of the boat an' look out for 
em when they come, suh." 

And so, I "sozzled." As the bacon splashed into the water be- 
side a submerged log, a big bass darted from its shelter, taking the 
end hook. 

"Pull him in hand over hand an' don't let him jump, suh." 
As I attempted the manoeuvre, the fish rushed for the shelter 
of another log just ahead of the boat. Then came a mighty swirl 
and vicious tugging at the line, which nearly pulled the pole from 
my hands. 

13 



"What in the name of Isaac Walton have I struck now?" 

"My Gawd, you've got a gator! He grabbed yer bass, suh. 
He's a little feller, but they're all techy, suh." 

"This one is 'touchy' all right. What will he do?" 

"Dum near what he reck'ns ter do. Look out! He's comin', 
suh." 

"Coming" he surely was, and straight for the boat. He was 
about seven feet long but looked bigger than a hippopotamus. 
My eyes staring, my hair on end, I resolved to jump for it and get 
ashore. I gathered for the spring just as the alligator poked his 
nose through the pads directly before me. It was too late to stop; 
but in making the effort to do so I lost my balance, and with legs 
and arms extended I landed squarely upon the reptile's back. 
With a lightning fluke of his powerful tail the frightened "gator" 
dived; while I, with a yell that would discount a Mohawk war- 
whoop, scrambled ashore. In the meantime the old Cracker had 
caught up a rope from the bottom of the boat, and, quickly form- 
ing a noose, had dextrously slipped it over the "gator's" head. 
As I turned on gaining the shore, the old man was waist deep in 
the water having it out with our quarry, which was stirring up the 
lake in his mad endeavor to escape. 

"Can't ye give us a hand, suh?" he pleaded. 

"Not for the whole blessed county. For heaven's sake, man, 
let that thing go. Do you want to be eaten alive?" 

"He don't want to eat nobody. He's as skeert as you-all be, 
suh. Give us a hand or he'll get away, suh." 

Abashed at the part I was playing, I plunged into the fray. 
Our combined efforts promptly subdued our opponent and he was 
quickly pulled ashore, when I threw myself upon the ground com- 
pletely exhausted. 

"This beats all the fishing I ever saw or heard of," I gasped. 
And I believe I am the only living man who can truthfully relate 
such an experience. 

"How will you dispose of him, now that we have him?" 

"He's your meat, suh. I hope you have enjoyed yourself, 
suh." And the old man grinned as he tied the rope around a stump 
root. 

"Well then, since he is such a 'little fellow' and has given us 
more excitement than we could have found elsewhere in a dozen 
years, why not let him go and grow up? There is no joy in murder; 
and possibly some other fisherman may sometime enjoy a scrap 
with him as much as we have." 

14 



The old Cracker mused for a moment; tied his clasp knife to 
a stick and guardedly cut the rope from the creature's neck; shifted 
his cud of native leaf to the other cheek and said: "I'm mighty 
glad to hear ye say that, suh. I jist nacherly reck'n'd that you-all 
was a real sportsman, and now I know it. Mighty glad ye said it, 
suh." 



Fish Crazy! 

By E. A. Brininstool 



IN my capacity as a drummer for a Los Angeles grocery store I 
stepped off a train in a small town in Southern California. I 
walked across the street, but there was but one man in 
sight. He was a native who sat on a box in front of the only 
grocery, mending a broken fish rod. He looked up as I approached, 
pausing long enough to remark, "Howdy," and then continued 
his repairs. I walked inside the store, but it was deserted. There 
wasn't a living thing in sight, save a dirty-white cat, contentedly 
curled up in a barrel of rolled oats. I rapped on the counter, but 
nobody came. Then I stepped to the door and asked the native: 

"Where's the proprietor?" 

"Gone troutin' up Fish Canyon. Won't be back till day after 
tomorry. Want anything?" 

"No, want to sell something," I replied. 

"Have t' call agin, mister. I'm supposed to be tendin' store, 
but I cain't buy nothin'. I kin sell yeh a darn good axe halve fer 
two bits, though." 

"Where's the barber-shop? Guess I'll get a shave while I wait 
for the next train." 

"Right across the street, but he ain't home. Gone up San 
Gabr'l Canyon fer th' day." 

"Fishin'?" 

"Yep." 

"There used to be a drug-store here where I occasionally made 
a sale. Suppose the boss would be in?" 

"I don't reckon so. I saw him a-diggin' bait when I come 
past his place awhile back." 

"Well, that's too bad. I guess I'll just step over to the post- 
office and see when the next train goes out." 

15 



"It's shet. That's the postmaster a-goin' 'crost lots with that 
fish pole onto his shoulder. See him?" 

"When can I get out of this place, any how?" I asked, con- 
siderably nettled at this turn of affairs. 

"Six o'clock tonight's fust train," replied the man with a 
yawn, as he swished the pole up and down, closed his jackknife 
and arose hastily from his seat on the box. 

"See here, my friend," said I. "Have you got a Tin Lizzie?" 

"Yep, one o' th' kind that eats oats. She's a one-cylinder 
kind, but she gits thar just the same." 

"What will you charge to drive me to the next town?" I asked, 
jingling some coins in my pocket enticingly. 

"Can't do it, stranger." 

"Why not?" I asked impatiently. 

1 'Cuz I'm goin' to try and ketch up with th' postmaster jest 
as soon's I tie a line onto this pole." 

And I'll be darned if I didn't have to hang around that place 
all day, watching the cows eat grass off the public square. 



One Way of Going Fishing 

By Mrs. Edith Elkins 

I AM a "mere woman" just off the operating table of a city 
hospital and your advertisement tempts me to relate a fish- 
ing experience of my own that happened years ago. As a 
girl I had fished in the rivers and small lakes of Illinois and 
shot quail and ducks in the open season. Then I married, and for 
twelve long years never dared go fishing on peril of being con- 
sidered "mannish" by my narrow-minded in-laws. 

One early spring morning my husband said: "You'll have to 
milk. Jack (the hired man) and I are going fishing. Bass are 
coming up in slews this morning." I replied: "All right, I'm go- 
ing this evening. You and Jack can get supper." "Why, I can't," 
he roared back, "I've got to go to town and there's no one to take 
care of the babies or feed the little chicks and milk the cows." I 
said no more but bided my time and dug worms and netted grass- 
hoppers for bait. I packed my lunch-box, a bottle of milk, a bucket 
of water, and my bouncing baby boy in his cab, only to find every 
fish pole had been hidden to keep me at home. That didn't deter 

16 



me. I had lines and hooks, so I added the butcher knife to my load 
and started, still pretty sore about my treatment but none the less 
determined, with Baby in his cab and four-year-old Baby Girl 
toddling at my side, saying, "Papa said 'Mamma tan't tach a sish; 
takes Papa to do dat'." 

That was the last straw. I cried, not that I felt so hurt, but 
because I couldn't swear. For once in my life I realized the value 
of spontaneous profanity and would have been happy to have used 
it as a safety-valve. 

We were at the pasture-gate and the tang of the black walnut 
leaves and the gleam of a clump of red-bud in the sunlight said 
plainly: "Cut it out, you're going fishing anyway. If those darned 
men are hungry let 'em cook. You've got your lunch along." I 
listened. As I closed the gate I said "good-bye" to my grouch. 

Kazan never heard the call of the wild clearer than I heard it 
that day. I trudged on, my heavy load growing lighter as sweet 
arbutus, violet, blood-root and squirrel corn peeped their welcome 
to me from among the weeds and ferns. We were soon at the 
river, overhung by elm and sycamore with maple, hickory and 
oaks farther back, sprinkled here and there with crab-apple, dog- 
wood and red-bud — God's own fragrance for his glorious woodlands. 
I "swiped" a hoop-pole for myself and cut a willow for Baby Girl 
to fish with. I had landed several small bass with the hoppers 
when Baby Girl called: "Mamma! Mamma! Somefins detting 
my sish pole!" Something had, too, — a two-pound cat, — and I 
got him for her supper. While we celebrated her first catch we 
forgot Boy who was bouncing in his cab, crowing and trying to 
catch the rustling leaves. 

We were brought back to earth again by a "ker-splash" and a 
lusty squall. I grabbed my sputtering hopeful out of the shallow, 
muddy water, gave him a river bath, dressed him comfortably 
and put him to sleep on a pallet on the ground. 

Then we had supper, — three nice bass broiled on the coals. 
The sun was down. I was ready for home, but Baby Girl was 
sleepy and lay down on the pallet. I fished on in the twilight won- 
dering how I'd ever get the babies and fish home in the semi- 
darkness. 

"Goo! Goo! Goo! Goo!" Boy was awake and had crawled 
out to find Mother. What could I do with that kid? I'd just got 
a bite and he wouldn't stay "put" anywhere on a bet. Then 
Baby Girl waked and came to me in the mud. I had Boy on my arm 
when I got another sneaky nibble. I tried to swing my line, but 

17 



could not and was sure I had a mossback. The next swing brought 
out a big grinnell that dropped off the hook in mud ankle-deep. 
I had my knee on him in a jiffy and called Baby Girl to help string 
him (as I couldn't drop Boy in the mud). She was shaking with 
fright and saying, "I'se so cold," while Boy cooed at the fish's 
struggles. 

We got him, however, and when we finally loaded up and went 
home we had eight bass, ten cats and a twenty-one-inch grinnell. 
Baby Girl was now well convinced that Mother was the greatest 
fisher ever. 



The First Tarpon 

By Charles Warner Mills 

FOR twelve days we fished faithfully for tarpon near Sara- 
sota, Florida. The night of the thirteenth day we started 
fishing at 7 o'clock. Ten minutes later there was a rush 
at my shiner. I held my breath and struck, setting the 
hook. Then came what I had anxiously been waiting for — a leap 
from a tarpon at the end of my line. 

The thrill experienced will be remembered to my dying day. 
"That's a beauty, and if you can land him I'll buy you a new hat," 
cried the guide. "He'll easily weigh 150 pounds and for heaven's 
sake be careful," he shouted, as the big fellow reeled off yard after 
yard of line. 

I was actually trembling from head to foot as he made his wild 
rushes, first in one direction and the next minute at an entirely 
opposite angle. Then came the second leap and a vigorous shake 
of the head. He was fighting desperately, and I was using every 
particle of skill I had accumulated by years of experience in fresh- 
water fishing. My black-bass knowledge proved valuable, as the 
antics of the tarpon were quite like the small-mouth bass, only 
greatly magnified. 

In twenty minutes it had grown dark. Captain Roberts com- 
mended me on my handling the fish so far, but expressed doubts 
about saving the big fellow as I should have to play him in absolute 
darkness for a half-hour, as the moon would not appear until about 
eight o'clock, and I should not be able to depend upon Mr. Roberts 
for assistance in the fight. Instead of his giving me instructions I 
was forced to depend entirely upon myself and to shout to the 

18 



guide to pull ahead faster, or to back the boat rapidly, as the tar- 
pon would rip through the water at a furious rate and almost 
deplete my reel of line. Then he would shoot to the right or left, 
and I would shout orders as to how the boat should be guided. 

To make matters worse, a thunder-storm formed in the east 
and this prolonged my fight in absolute darkness for a full hour 
and a half. 

At the end of an hour in the blackness of night the guide began 
to offer encouragement. He fairly yelled: "If you can continue to 
play him until the moon shows up, I believe you'll land him, as he 
has made eight leaps and must be getting tired." 

By this time I was quite calm and equally determined that Mr. 
Tarpon must be captured. 

Finally the moon appeared and in the brightness of its reflec- 
tion there were five more leaps — beautiful pictures to behold in the 
moonlight. 

But to our dismay the clouds gathered again, adding to our 
difficulties. 

Finally there were evidences that the tarpon was giving up, 
and soon the fight was over. All that was necessary to do was to 
draw the fish close to the boat and the gaff. I did so, and the guide 
proceeded to do his part, but in the almost total darkness, caused 
by the deep bank of clouds obscuring the moon, the gaff penetrated 
the fish lightly. He made a death struggle and freed himself from 
the gaff — and floated away with the tide, which was running fast 
by this time. 

We were both dazed for a few seconds when I cried: "He's 
gone!" Captain Clarence moaned: "He has, and it's all my fault. 
I'll be d d if I'll go home to-night." 

I looked at my watch. It was 10.20. I had played my first 
tarpon three hours and ten minutes and lost him. 

I threw myself in the bottom of the boat absolutely unnerved 
and exhausted. 

The guide sat motionless for a minute, when he inquired if I 
would not try for another. I replied that I hadn't strength enough 
left to pull in a ten-pound grouper. 

I found comfort in the thought that it was a great fight — prob- 
ably as great as I'll ever experience — and we slowly proceeded for 
home and bed. 

It was the thirteenth day we had tried for tarpon and he made 
thirteen leaps. 

Maybe that was the answer. 

19 



The Doctor's Catch 

By Paul C. Kuegle 

THE Doctor swore fervently and his face flushed like a rosy- 
sunset. A roar went up from the stern of the boat which 
the moss-draped live-oaks and pines and palmettoes 
echoed and re-echoed back and forth across the sunlit 
waters of the Florida bayou until it lost itself along the winding 
channel toward the sea. 

But a moment before, the guide had handed back to the Doctor 
his light banboo casting-rod and reel, which for the past twenty- 
five minutes had whipped and bent and sung under the tugs and 
lunges of an invisible monster, and rowed straight along the taut 
line, the Doctor excitedly reeling in. On the guide's face was that 
amused quizzical expression which we had come to look for when, 
for any of the many possible reasons, we had failed to land our 
strikes. 

But, to go back to the beginning of things. An hour earlier, 
the Doctor had hooked a gamy red fish, which, after ten minutes 
of good sport, rested in the box under the guide's seat and added 
six and a half pounds to the sundry sea trout which Joe (who had 
done the roaring), the guide, and I had hauled in. We knew the 
Doctor was a master of the art by the way he had landed this 
largest of the day's catch. 

So we trolled back and forth across the favorite spot, hoping 
every moment to receive that thrilling message telegraphed from 
the depths along the line to the quivering rod tip, and to enjoy 
that keen, blood-tingling sensation which every angler knows. 
A good tide was running and a fitful wind blowing. These things 
were afterwards responsible for some of the events which followed. 
"I've got him," suddenly said the Doctor, standing up, his rod 
bent like a bow, and his reel singing the anglers' song. "Steady 
now," said the guide, as he put the boat hard around. Joe and I 
reeled rapidly in so as to give the master a clean field in which to 
play his catch, and contented ourselves by casting until such time 
as we should be needed to help lift the monster into the boat, or 
that being impossible, tie him on to be towed to camp. 

For five minutes the Doctor stood like a statue, his pole rigid 
and line tight, giving or taking a little line as was necessary. An- 
other five minutes and there was no change. Still another five 
and the catch was not yet near the boat, apparently having taken 

20 



to sulking on the bottom and matching its strength and endurance 
with that of its human competitor. 

In the next five-minute period some of the line had been labori- 
ously reclaimed by the reel, only to be released under the steady 
pressure from below. The Doctor was having all the fun, and, 
having no luck ourselves, Joe and I were becoming restless. By 
the way the smoke curled from the guide's pipe we knew that he, 
too, was uneasy. Twenty-five minutes had passed when he said: 
"Just let me feel that fellow a bit," and reached for the rod. After 
a bit of a pull, and a careful "feel" of the line, he handed it back, 
took up his paddle and sent the boat straight along the line, fifty 
yards, seventy-five yards, and as we neared the hundred mark 
we saw through the clear water the white minnow held rigid by 
the tension of the line, and attached to it a large dark object. The 
Doctor was fast to a stump. 



White Scar's Last Battle 

By Orin P. Thorson 

WHITE SCAR had now seen six summers of battle 
and strife. During all this time he had been the 
sole dominator of Pine Lake, a small lake in north- 
ern Minnesota. No other fish ever considered the 
possibilities of using his domain as a feeding ground, for time and 
again he had defeated all comers and had proven himself capable 
of maintaining his position. In order to know who White Scar was 
it is necessary to go back several years. 

When he first found his way into Pine Lake he was but a year 
old and full of fight. He had trouble as soon as he arrived, for at 
that time the lake was dominated by another Muskie larger and 
older than himself. When the contestants discovered each other, 
they knew there must be a battle to decide who should dominate. 
It was after a hard battle for both, that the larger fish was compelled 
to retreat to some other waters and leave White Scar the ruler. 
But this was only his first battle, as we shall see later in the story. 
A year had now passed and again White Scar found it neces- 
sary to defend his office. This time it was a long sleek otter that 
threatened him. He was also a veteran and made a good match 
for White Scar, as he later found out. He made a lunge for the great 
fish, but a clever movement of the tail put White Scar to one side. 

21 



But as quick as he was, the otter managed to dig one of his claws 
into his smooth coat and tore a long gash. When this healed, it 
turned white and was the cause of his name. An hour of fighting, 
however, exhausted the otter and he was compelled to leave the 
field with White Scar again as king. 

During these years no one had yet captured White Scar. It 
remained, however, for Dan Hardy, an eastern sportsman, to accom- 
plish the feat. He was a member of an eastern club who took his 
annual fishing trips in the northern woods of Minnesota and Wis- 
consin. He was a true sportsman and obtained his trophies in a 
sportsmanlike manner. Few handled the rod with more skill than 
Hardy and many fish fell before his tempting baits. 

On his arrival he was informed by the local nimrods of the re- 
treat of White Scar. They recounted the different experiences 
with him and some were not altogether accurate when giving his 
size. Hardy, however, needed little encouragement to try his 
skill, and departed immediately with his guide for Pine Lake. 
Evening brought them to the little lake, and Hardy lost no time 
in making a few trial casts. Not receiving any strikes, he tried 
new ground, but to no avail. 

A week had passed and but one day remained of Hardy's va- 
cation. He had not as yet received any strikes from the monarch, 
but had succeeded in gaffing smaller fish. 

On the day following he arose early with his guide and pre- 
pared for a final trial to capture White Scar. Paddling to a more 
remote part of the lake he made a long cast, repeating it by several 
more, but with no results. Giving this up he baited a Number Six 
spoon with a large frog and trolled for a mile. They were turning 
when Hardy felt a vicious tug and the reel began spinning. They 
back-watered and began playing the fish, taking in and giving out 
with greatest care. Several times Hardy obtained a glance at the 
huge fish, but as yet the fight was not over. White Scar tried all 
the methods he had acquired in a life of fighting, but the hook 
remained firm. 

An hour of fighting had begun to tell on White Scar, and it 
was not long ere he came floating toward the canoe with his great 
mouth open. When the guide struck the gaff he made a final 
lunge, but to no avail. A quick movement of the guide's arm, 
and White Scar was gasping in the bottom of the canoe with his 
bright skin glistening in the sun. White Scar, the monarch and 
victor of many battles, had at last been defeated by one superior 
to himself. 

22 



From 

"THE OFFERTORY BASS" 

Page 25 




'Junior * * * made such a desperate swipe at the equally 

desperate fish that the coins went tail-spinning 

all over the waterscape." 



The Offertory Bass 

By Carl D. Schunck 

IN a large city there once dwelt a small family, — mother, 
father, and fourteen-year-old son. Father and son had 
spent all Spring and considerable money in carefully purchas- 
ing a complete outfit of fresh-water bass tackle in accordance 
with the specifications of the latest sport magazines. Both had 
the fever badly. It was a plain case of tackleitis in such advanced 
stages that the Mrs. could do nothing to avert the crisis which 
meant spending the annual two weeks' holiday at Springwood Lake. 
Atlantic City was her best bet, but for once she was compelled to 
wave the white flag. 

So it was that on a Friday night early in July the small family 
piled off at Springwood Lake, the Mrs. to make the best of it and 
Mr. and Junior to catch everything in the lake that wore fins. 

Saturday morning the latter two were at it before daybreak. 
They cast, trolled, skittered and swore in turn until evening, but 
the fish wouldn't even give them consideration. Every prize plug 
and spinner in the kit was sent to the bat for a pinch hit, but not 
a single strike was scored. It was a down-right freezeout; and to 
make matters worse the next day was Sunday, which by Ma's 
orders meant no fishing. 

However, right after cornflakes Sunday morning Senior and 
Junior held a bait council which resulted in favor of night-crawlers. 
The ground was too dry to spade up any big fellows, but Junior 
had a remedy. By pouring a mixture of mustard and water into the 
largest earth-worm holes he produced an amazing result. In ten 
seconds those night-crawlers fairly jumped from their dug-outs 
shouting "Kamerad!" and begging to be made prisoner. This 
method of capture took Dad clean off his feet and he was sorely 
tempted to try a few crawlers on the bass forthwith. 

Meanwhile, at the hotel, Ma had made the acquaintance of 
the local minister and learned from him that one of the main at- 
tractions of Springwood Lake was the Sunday afternoon services 
at Chapel Point where the congregation assembled in boats and 
canoes. Of course, she would come! Indeed, it would be a pleas- 
ure to have her son help the minister's little daughter Angelicia 
take up the collection in Angelicia's canoe. 

Thus was Junior elected to be assistant coin-gatherer of the 
Springwood parish, and 4 p. m. found him on the job, deftly pad- 

25 



dling throughout the assembled boats while Angelicia rounded up a 
goodly sum in a long-handled basket built along the lines of a 
crab net. 

The last few contributions were being corralled when the skiff 
containing Ma and Pa started with a mysteriously slow and jerky 
motion toward the centre of the lake without any visible means 
of persuasion. Pa seemed undecided as to what should be done, 
but it was too much for Ma. Her plaintive squeals for help di- 
verted all attention from the sermon to the skiff's unusual con- 
duct. With a few sweeps of his trust paddle, Junior swung his 
canoe to the rescue just as the unknown power appeared. 

About ten yards from the skiff's bow a black bass all of three 
feet long broke water and shook vigorously to free itself from a 
drop-line which stretched taut from one of Pa's oar-locks. It 
was a prize winner and easily held the speed record for breaking 
up a church meeting. 

Junior let loose a war-whoop, grabbed the collection from An- 
gelicia and made such a desperate swipe at the equally desperate 
fish that the coins went tail-spinning all over the waterscape. 
But the bass was doomed, and a moment later it lay in the bot- 
tom of the canoe. 

Angelicia bawled lustily for her lost money; Ma turned from 
white to purple but she saw red ; Pa dug up a ten-spot which effec- 
tually quieted Angelicia, then Ma cut loose: 

"Henry Mullet, you've discovered the proper bait for bass, 
but I've discovered that you're through with fishing; you will have 
that fish thrown overboard at once, take me back to the hotel 
and buy three tickets for the first train to Atlantic City!" 



26 



War Minnows 

By Frederick L. Coe 

YOU'RE allowed to do pretty much as you like at a rest 
camp, so when my buddy and I asked for a pass to go 
fishing out of bounds there was no objection. We had 
already noted that the country — it was in the lower 
Vosges — closely resembled our own beloved New England. More- 
over, the streams looked as though they would have trout, or 
should have. But first we had to get some fishing tackle. 

Ever try to buy anything from a fat French shopkeeperess 
who can't understand a word of English — or American — while 
your knowledge of French is confined to the little forced upon 
you at high-school and as promptly forgotten? And if you believe 
that you could explain such a situation by sign talk or pantomime, 
why, just try it. But after a hard battle we did manage to get 
something remotely resembling an outfit. 

The following morning two soldiers might have been observed 
headed for the country carrying poles at ease. There in the beau- 
tiful beech-covered hills where the little brook tumbled its way 
down a winding course, now foaming over ledges and now spread- 
ing out in ripples with an occasional deep, quiet pool, the grim war 
was forgotten — a nightmare of the past. Here everything was 
peaceful. Also the fish — such as they were — bit splendidly. I 
can't say they were large, not a one over a quarter pound, while 
many were kept only by grace of an elastic conscience. But be- 
yond blaming that upon association — generally enforced — with 
Fritz, we continued on our happy way. After what we had been 
through, this was so peaceful that it fairly hurt. All good things 
must end, and only too soon we had to return. 

We came in for considerable guying from the fellows on the 
way back regarding the size of our fish — and considerable doesn't 
at all express it. We knew what'd be coming later. Soldiers have 
a way of putting things that get under the hide. 

Upon nearing the village we noticed an unusual stir and on 
arrival saw that a long line of Boche prisoners were passing through, 
on the way to some prison camp. They were a miserable lot, all 
of the latest classes; pale, anaemic-looking boys of not over seven- 
teen and in about the worst physical condition possible. As we 
stood watching them a remark suddenly brought me to myself 
with a jump. I turned around with a quick retort ready. But 

27 



luckily I choked it back just in time. It was none other than our 
colonel — an enthusiastic fisherman in better times — who had spoken 
as he stood gazing disgustedly at the poor specimens of Huns. 

"Hell — " he said, "why don't they throw them back; they're 
all under six inches." 



The Jugger Jugged 

By Emery Alton Peffley 

I AST summer I spent a week fishing on the St. Francis River 
in northeastern Arkansas. After several days of fine luck 
J with the game fish, I decided to try jugging for cat. Row- 
ing over to Lake City, about a mile away, I secured some 
large hooks, strong line, a half-dozen large jugs and some beef liver 
for bait. I floated down the river aways as I rigged up the jugs, then 
strung them out about fifty feet apart, in the middle of the stream, 
which was wide at this point, and drifted along in the rear watch- 
ing for a strike. There was not much current, so the jugs moved 
down slowly. 

After floating along for a few hundred yards the jug at the 
head of the line began to jump around and then disappeared, 
popped up again and started out slowly toward the far bank. I 
hurried after the jug, soon came alongside and got a hold on the 
line. After quite a struggle I succeeded in getting a fine twenty-five- 
pound cat safely into the boat. 

I had just placed the jug back into line again and dropped in 
behind the string when I heard some one yelling from the shore. 
I paid no attention but drifted on, watching the row of jugs for 
another strike, when I heard the sharp crack of a high-power rifle 
and a bullet splashed the water just ahead of the boat. Astounded, 
I looked up and on the bank ahead of me stood a man looking 
down the barrel of a perfectly good Winchester, saying: "Hand on 
to the oars, Pard, or I'll perforate you; and head her in this way 
quick!" I turned the boat and cut for the bank at my best speed, 
without any discussion, as I imagined that I could see at least 
seventeen long bullets in that gun. 

As I grounded the boat, I got the order, " Hands up," and you 
bet they went up, and it was all that I could do to hold my feet 
down. 

28 



From 

'THE TWILIGHT TROUT' 

Page 31 




"Michel * * * seized his paddle and started for the 
portage." 



"Now get up and come out," said my captor. I came out with 
my hands skyward and my knees bumping. As I came up the 
bank, he fell in behind and slipped a pair of hand-cuffs on me 
before I could realize what was going on, then taking a trace chain 
out of his pocket he locked me to a tree. After that he hurried 
down to the boat, saying: "Don't worry, I'll be back for you as 
soon as I gather up the jugs." 

He rowed rapidly out and soon had all the jugs in the boat, 
after which he headed for the bank. As soon as he landed he 
picked up one of the jugs, uncorked it and took a smell, looked a 
little astonished and tried another and another, until he had 
smelled them all. After this he looked rather foolish, began to 
laugh and came up to the tree to which I was locked, saying: 
"I'm a bonehead and don't know how to apologize to you for this 
deal, but I thought I had a cinch. I'm a deputy sheriff of this 
county, and I've been laying around here for two days to catch a 
smooth whiskey peddler who floats down here where it's bone 
dry from the wet country in Missouri, jugging for cat with his jugs 
nearly full of whiskey, and when I saw you drifting along after that 
line of jugs, I'd a bet my head on a sure thing." 



The Twilight Trout 

By Robert B. Peck 

THERE is a lake in the Laurentians that has its counterpart 
in every angler's memory. Black as polished ebony are its 
waters in the glow of sunset and the smouldering dawn. 
Rockbound shores rim it and from their crannies spring 
slender birchlings and twisted, gnomelike cedars. In the farther 
ranks dark hemlocks and spruce march steadily over the ridges to 
the blue ranges beyond. At the extremity of a boulder-strewn point 
a select company of pines whispers lofty secrets through the years. 
Remote, aloof, almost forbidding in its dignity, the lake shelters 
in its deeps a tribe of worthy trout. Black-backed, olive-flanked 
with scarlet jewels set cunningly in gold and darker scrolls, their 
rush upon their prey is swift but cunningly checked at the moment 
of impact. Cleaving upward with the speed of light they barely 
dent the surface with their snapping jaws. There is no unseemly 

31 



splashing when the trout of the Lake of Memory go forth to feed — 
just a vanishing dimple here and there on the lake's placidity. 

Such a miniature vortex twinkled for an instant just astern of 
the canoe that slid like a shadow through the gloom. The face of 
Michel as he brought the craft to an automatic quivering halt was 
expressionless. Only a dwindling band of orange above the western 
hills told where the sun had gone; the portage was blind by broad 
daylight and beset with treacherous witchhopple. But instinc- 
tively and heedless of delay and discomfort that might be involved, 
Michel steadied the canoe for the cast. 

The white wings of a plump-bodied coachman hovered for an 
unforgetable instant above the spot while his team-mate, a 
Parmachene Belle, well-nigh invisible in the gathering shadows, 
straightened out the leader beyond. With the daintiest of splashes 
they took the water, hesitated and began their jerky progress 
canoeward. Michel's tense muscles relaxed almost imperceptibly 
as the coachman drew a blank and his eyes focussed on the satellite 
of scarlet and gold. 

Not a splash broke the silence but suddenly the tail fly vanished ; 
a fathom of line was whipped off the reel with a shrieking z-z-i-i-ip; 
the rod bowed to its task and the line etched rapid serpentines on 
the water. 

"Un gross!" grunted Michel and spat interestedly, taut as the 
rod itself and oblivious to the deepening night. 

Cautiously he edged the canoe this way and that, now baffling 
a sudden rush to double under the craft, now stealing up and 
retrieving a few feet of line. Every such manoeuvre, however, 
intensified and renewed the vigor of the fighter in the depths. This 
way and that he bolted only to be turned at last by the elastic but 
inexorable strain. 

Finally he floated sullenly upward. Now one broad flank and 
now the other tilted to the remnant of the day so that the burnished 
orange beneath flashed and vanished alternately. Stealthily 
Michel dipped the net, gently he moved it forward, straightening 
its folds in its slow progress through the water. He bent forward 
on one knee, a hand upon the thwart and his entire being con- 
centrated on that flashing, lazily approaching shape. 

"Z-z-i-i-ip!" warned the reel again and again the line cut 
circles which left a tiny tracery of bubbles in their wake. 

Michel spat without inflection but kept his net in the water and 
a hopeful eye on the vagaries of the line. A lunge which careened 
the canoe, a sudden recovery with a gleam of triumph in the deep- 

32 



set eyes of Michel and, amid a profane splashing in the silence and 
a sudden flopping, the struggle ended. With a swift motion Michel 
held out the fish at arm's length for admiration, ejaculated "Un 
Gros!" seized his paddle and started for the portage at a speed 
which imparted the motion of a rocking chair to the canoe. 

To complete the perfection of the moment a white-throated 
sparrow grieved drowsily for Canada and as the canoe churned past 
the whispering pines on the point a star gleamed through the tufted 
branches and shone back riotously for an instant in the swirl behind 
Michel's paddle. 



A Reward of Merit 

By E. E. Shoemaker 

THE last afternoon of a strenuous fortnight had arrived and 
we welcomed it. My chum and I, two unsophisticated 
schoolma'ms, had blindly consented to take care of twenty- 
five children from the metropolis in the first of the fresh-air 
camps at Oneida Lake, N. Y. And it was some job, believe me. 
I had always thought that teaching school was the most nerve- 
racking occupation, but it is hardly a circumstance compared with 
the distraction caused by having twenty-five youngsters of 
unmanageable age dumped upon your hands and told to go to it. 
They certainly did. But at last the two weeks had passed and, as 
the youngsters climbed upon the big hayracks for the trip to the 
station, we saw with pleasure that none were maimed, drowned, or 
killed, and but two hours remained before we, too, would be leaving 
for our homes in the neighboring city. 

What a contrast from the noise and confusion of the restless 
youngsters to the peacefulness of the present. We hardly knew 
what to do with ourselves, so wandered down to the dock at the 
shore of the lake which had always seemed so near but which until 
now, we had had no chance of visiting. It seemed so restful, and 
quiet, and invigorating here, with the waves splashing and the 
wind blowing. Uninvited, we climbed into a trim little skiff to get 
nearer the water and presently my chum picked up the oars and 
started slowly rowing through the pads and rushes. At my feet lay 
a trolling spoon and line and almost unconsciously I unwound five 
or six feet of line and let the spoon trail in the water. Alice had 

33 



hardly taken a dozen strokes before the spoon got caught on a 
submerged log which gave my arm an awful jerk and I shouted for 
her to stop the boat. When she failed to do so I gave a tremendous 
yank to loosen the hook when it snapped up suddenly into the boat 
bringing with it a big greenish fish with huge jaws which threatened 
to throw us out and at the same time break the small boards of the 
boat as it rattled and thumped about upon the bottom. 

In my eagerness to keep him I tried to cover him with my 
umbrella and in less than a minute it was a twisted mass of rags 
and wire. Seeing this, Alice shouted, "Throw the beast out," but 
the mere suggestion made me so angry that I threw my jacket over 
him so that he would not get away and then tried to sit upon and 
hold him with my hands and knees. Within a few minutes my coat 
was a mass of ribbons and my skirt was slit and torn; so were my 
stockings, while my hands and ankles were scratched and bleeding. 
But I was so determined to have that fish that I think I would have 
killed anyone who tried to take it away from me. 

After an eternity, as it seemed to me, Alice came to sufficiently 
to pull for the shore and, as soon as the boat stranded, she jumped 
out into water nearly up to her knees. As soon as I could I followed 
suit, dragging the big fish with me and out upon the grass, for I 
couldn't lift him, and believe me, we must have been some sight. 
Alice, with her nice clean lawn all muddy and bedraggled, running 
for her very life to get away from the beast, and I with my skirt all 
tattered and torn, charging pell-mell after her, the huge fish dragging 
along behind with the trolling spoon still in his mouth. When we 
got back to the door of the camp, hardly fifteen minutes after 
starting, we were the center of an excited crowd, everyone wanting 
to know what we did, and how we did it, and all that we knew was 
that we did it. 

The owner of the skiff offered us ten, then fifteen, and at last 
twenty-five dollars for our catch — a fine thirty-three pound muscal- 
lounge, but it was not for sale. We did, however, postpone our 
return for one day so that all of the campers could have a share of 
our baked pike with us, — for Shakespere says : 

Not what we have, but what we share, 
The gift without the giver is bare. 



34 



The Desecration of the Pool 

By T. McB. F. 

DID you ever hear of the greenhorn who caught the big 
fish at the Upper Dam?" It was Uncle Bill, who had 
guided in the Rangeley Lake region for some twenty 
odd years and was famous for his stories, as well as his 
prowess, throughout a great part of the State of Maine. 

We all moved our chairs a little closer and sat drawing on our 
pipes, looking from Bill to the fire and back again. We had been 
talking about the bull luck that some men sometimes have. 

Bill went on. "It may have been luck or it may have been a 
fool fish that was obstinate enough to want what no one had in 
his tackle box. This happened at the Upper Dam of the Rangeleys 
while I was guiding. Men used to come there from all over, just 
to cast a fly over the fish they might never catch. Some had come 
regularly for years, whether they had luck or not. They were all 
sportsmen and loved and respected the speckled trout. They'd 
sit there casting all day long, with the best of rods and the finest 
flies that money could buy. The fish were there, too. You'd see 
them roll, big fellows as long as your arm. 

"Well, gentlemen, one day along came a greenhorn. You should 
have seen him! There he was, going to try for a self-respecting, 
God-fearing square-tail with a dollar rod, a tin reel and a Par- 
machene Belle as long as your finger. One of the boys went up to 
him, but this man knew the game, or thought he did. He didn't 
need a guide. He stumbled into a boat and rowed out, and threw 
his anchor, with a splash, right into the middle of the pool. Then 
he started whipping his dollar rod and clicking his tin reel, while 
his Parmachene Belle began flying over our heads looking like a 
poll-parrot that didn't know where to go. Finally it lit in the 
water. Soon there was a great swirl, then a speckled side and a 
square-tail and we all knew that he had one of the gamiest fish 
that live in fresh water on his queer tackle. He began fighting 
back just as hard as the fish fought him. 'Give him line, give him 
line!' we all yelled at him. 'Not a d — d inch will I give him!' 
the greenhorn hollered back. 'Play him, play him!' we shouted 
again. 'Not on your life!' 

"It was the queerest fight I ever saw. Here was this new- 
comer treating a trout as though it were a wild steer. And how it 
fought! Jumping, then sounding, then up again, making the 

35 



water fairly boil, trying its darnedest to shake out that enormous 
fly. Then before the fight was fairly started the fish was in his 
boat, about as lively as ever, flopping from one end to the other, 
and the greenhorn after him, with his big knife flashing. He 
jabbed and slashed and pounded 'till there wasn't a kick or flop 
left in that once beautiful trout. 

"He then had the nerve to hold up his gory victim and say: 
'Men, that's the way to catch fish.' 

"The greenhorn carried his trout to the club house. There it 
tipped the scales at a little over five pounds. 

" 'I want him stuffed,' he said to one of the men. 'You can't 
mount that fish after the way you've cut it up.' 'No matter. I'll 
catch a bigger one.' I don't need to tell you that as far as I know 
he never had such luck again. 

"While all this was going on the old sportsmen were leaving 
the pool disgusted with the proceedings. It took all the life out 
of the man I was guiding. He just said: 'Bill, pull up the anchor 
and row me in. I've had enough for one day.' " 



The Legend of the Ouananiche 

By J. Crawford Maxwell 

IONG years ago along the reaches of the Penobscot, dwelt 
the Indians of that name. Wah-tee-tah, a princess of the 
i tribe, was one of the happy ornaments of that picturesque 
■"* race. 
She was named Wah-tee-tah, which means Wildflower, after 
the manner of all Indian babies, because the first thing her mother 
saw upon emerging from the maternal wigwam, was a gorgeous 
mass of wildflowers that had just opened to the morning. 

As Wah-tee-tah grew up, her love of wildflowers developed to 
extremes, and one day, as usual, the morning sun found her roam- 
ing the banks of the Penobscot, gathering and adorning herself 
with her favorite flowers. Daisies, buttercups and violets, golden- 
rod and evergreen bedecked her in glorious profusion. 

By Sourdnahunk Falls she sat down to rest and rearrange her 
virgin vesture. Just then her sensitive ears heard voices, and, 
glancing toward the river, she discovered a pale-face and an In- 
dian in heated dispute. The alien was fishing and with him were 

36 



From 
"THE LEGEND OF THE OUANANICHE" 
Page 36 




"The courageous princess reached her lover but only to perish 
with him in the treacherous falls." 



many hungry dogs. Inexperienced fisherman that he was, he 
could only catch inexperienced fishes — the small fry that an Indian 
disdained to destroy. These small fish the angler was feeding to 
his hungry dogs. 

Wildflower's brave — for the Indian was her lover — was voicing 
his disgust at this proceeding, from his canoe in mid-stream. 

"Heap nice meat to throw to dogs big enough to hunt their 
own food," said the Indian. 

"If I choose to feed fishes to my dogs, that is my business," 
retorted the pale-face. 

"Take away all the babies, bye-and-bye no mother fish to give 
us more," returned the occupant of the canoe. 

"When this stream is fished out there are other rivers beyond," 
and the fisherman with a nod indicated the West. 

"That's beyond the sunset, but Katahdin is our camping- 
ground and you are destroying our fish and food," said the Indian. 

"Then I'll leave you my dogs to make stew for your tribe," 
was the retort of the white man. 

This remark, uttered in sneering sarcasm, piqued the Indian 
and in an instant a whirling tomahawk pinned the fisherman's 
tunic to a tree. In return, the enraged angler discharged his pis- 
tol at his assailant and a leaden bullet ricocheted from the red man's 
bracelet, tearing a gash in his arm and a hole in the bottom of the 
canoe. The swiftly flowing stream soon carried the sinking craft 
and its disabled occupant rapidly toward the falls below, and, 
although the pale-face made efforts to save him, his ability was 
unequal to the task. 

All this Wildflower had witnessed. As the canoe went spinning 
by, she ran to the river and plunged to the aid of her lover. Her 
efforts to save him would have been successful had not the cata- 
ract been so near. The courageous princess reached her lover but 
only to perish with him in the treacherous falls. 

Now the white chief, — he was governor of all that district, — 
sorry for what he had done, sent this edict broadcast: That all men 
should observe to retain only those fish that had attained mature 
size, so that the species should be preserved and the Indians' fish 
supply be established. 

At this time the ouananiche was colorless as a smelt, but when 
Wildflower and her brave were drowned, the flowers that en- 
shrouded her were taken by the current, and, as if in sorrow at 
the loss of their princess, they gathered into a compact mass of 
color and sank like a stone at the bottom of the falls. No human 

39 



eye can see them there, but every little ouananiche when he gets 
big enough to travel, visits the palette of the Indian princess, and 
each little trout paints himself as with colors of the rainbow — the 
gold and green and rose and hidden hues of woodland flowers, and 
each silver spot is a princess' tear. 

This is the legend of the ouananiche. His colors are to remind 
those who catch him of the memorial of wildflowers that lies be- 
neath the waters of the Penobscot, bearing testimony to the In- 
dian who died for clean sport, and the princess who roams with 
him the happy hunting-grounds among wildflowers and streams 
filled with ouananiche. 



Fishing for Health's Sake 

By Paul Fugler 

HAVING suffered from a nervous breakdown I was advised 
to take a complete rest, and a fishing trip was suggested. 
I concluded that a right rip-snorting, exhilarating time 
was needed, so I decided to go where the hand of man 
never set foot. My intuition directed the way to a fine stream 
beautifully located amidst the forests of Central Australia. 

To reach this secluded spot I purchased an airship, and within 
three weeks I reached the desired stream. 

Immediately making observations I found only one kind of 
fish, the ravenous muskowog, which is exceedingly game. 

In the breeding season all the young fish have to be taught the 
art of swimming. This is necessary because the water is so crystal- 
clear, that the young and inexperienced fish cannot distinguish 
whether their heads are above or below the surface of the water, 
consequently millions of young fish lose their lives by asphyxiation. 

Although the muskowog lives by eating the smaller fish it is 
wonderful how exceedingly civilized it is. Parent fish never eat 
their offspring, but raid neighboring pools. This information was 
easily obtained by observation, for I discovered that the features 
of the little fellows resembled those of their parents. 

In one deep pool I located a very large muskowog which had 
grown far away beyond the size of the rest, so large as to be 
immune from attack. The cause of his enormous size I will relate. 

One day two muskowogs decided at the same moment to have 

40 



From 

"FISHING FOR HEALTH'S SAKE" 

Page 40 




"By a quick release of the tree the fish was yanked out." 



their breakfast off a toothsome looking fish, one commencing at the 
head, and the other the tail. They touched noses at the middle of 
the morsel, when a somewhat larger muskowog gobbled up the three 
at one gulp. This extraordinary meal produced rapid growth. 

Every fisherman can readily understand that my mind was 
made up to catch this wonderful specimen. 

So netting a few fifty-pound shiners for bait, and placing one on 
the hook, I made a perfect cast. I was delighted to see the large 
muskowog strike immediately. You can imagine my chagrin when 
his nibs snipped the line in two as easily as a horse can a carrot. 

Here my inventive brain came to my rescue. I flew to a sheep 
fence about a thousand miles away, and clipped off about fifty 
yards of stout wire which I used as a fishing line. 

I now used the anchor of my airship as a hook. This was 
attached to the fence wire, and, with a fresh shiner, I had no 
difficulty in enticing him to again take the bait. 

And what a terrific fight he put up ! I found that my immense 
strength was of no avail in my efforts to land him. Again I called 
upon my wonderful intellect to help to solve the problem of landing 
the fish. 

Quick as a flash I attached the head of my airship to the main 
top branch of a tall willow, and bent the boughs to the ground in 
spring-like fashion. Hitching the line to the strongest bough, by 
a quick release of the tree the fish was yanked out and landed in a 
sandy basin about a mile from the bank. 

From exposure to the tropical sun the sand of this basin was of 
stove heat, so it acted just like a huge frying pan. All I had to do 
was to sprinkle pepper and salt, turn him over once, and he was 
cooked to a turn. His perfect condition furnished the fat for frying. 
Gathering some bread from a bread-fruit tree I thoroughly enjoyed 
the meal. 

I nearly forgot to say that, in order to quench my thirst, I drank 
from the stream, and great was my surprise to find it to be white 
wine of rare vintage. This flowed from the vineyards which dotted 
the surrounding district. Coming from a prohibition district you 
can easily guess that I had my fill. 

Thanks to this wonderful outing, I have regained my old vigor, 
and my nerves are again as steady as an oak. 



43 



Tarpon on Fly Tackle 

By Lieut. R. W. Swearingen 

IT was while sitting in the Strangers' Club, at Christobal, 
Canal Zone, and watching the native fishing schooners come 
in, that I heard some one at a nearby table say something 
about taking tarpon on fly tackle. To me the tale sounded 
"fishy." I would have wagered considerable that the teller held 
Ananias as his patron saint, instead of St. Zeno. However, many 
strange things happen in the tropics, and, calling the boy, I hastily 
paid my check and departed in search of further information. 

Fortunately, I happened to meet a Mr. Nichols, a gentleman 
well informed upon local angling conditions, who told me of an 
English sportsman, bound for South America, who stopped for a 
few hours at Colon, Panama, and made a sight-seeing trip to Gatun 
Lake and Dam. When two of the flood gates are opened it raises 
the water in the river and spillway below the dam to a depth of 
about eight feet. The secret of the tarpon is this: Gatun Lake 
has been stocked with black bass, and the tarpon come up the 
river to feed on the minnows that are carried over the top of the 
dam. The Englishman saw the tarpon jumping. Returning to 
Colon, he wired for tackle, and instead of spending a few hours, 
he remained for six months. He tied his own flies, on a 5/0 hook, 
with a long shank, and to which he gave local names. At his sug- 
gestion, the Gatun Tarpon Club was founded, a club house erected, 
and angling restricted to use of rod and reel. Fly fishing was 
especially encouraged. Mr. Nichols further informed me that he 
was going up to the club on the following morning, and asked if I 
would care to accompany him. 

Would I? Say, I had become possessed with only one desire, 
to wit, to take a tarpon on a fly. 

Early the next morning a launch set me ashore; I met Mr. 
Nichols at the depot; and we caught the 7:15 train for Gatun. 
The trip was quickly and pleasantly made, and a short walk brought 
us to the club house. Others had come up the night before, and 
were gathered around the breakfast table, discussing the morning 
catch. Seven beautiful tarpon were laid out on the grass near 
the club. It was only a few minutes' work — the quickest shift of 
clothing I ever made — to get into fishing togs and rig my tackle. 

The first attempt was made by casting a black bass minnow, 
hooking my first tarpon with the fourth cast, not a very large 

44 



one, but a vicious fighter. The water was a veritable maelstrom, 
and fairly alive with tarpon and snook. Later in the day a slight 
shower made its appearance, which seemed to stimulate them into 
jumping. In this small stretch of water, in no place over a hun- 
dred yards in width, I saw at least fifty tarpon in the air at one 
time. 

Later, I changed to ordinary salmon rod, fifteen-thread linen 
line, and with a fly succeeded in taking two more, of about twenty 
and thirty-five pounds. In the evening, when the gates were 
closed, I took a thirty-pounder by casting an artificial minnow. 
Others took them by casting a small piece of white cloth merely 
impaled on the hook. It seemed that one could use any "bait," 
but that he must have the very best of tackle. I can't think of 
any sport more exciting, and even you, seasoned angler though 
you may be, if you want a real thrill, something new, and an event 
that will linger long in the confines of the memory, go fly fishing 
for tarpon at Gatun! 



A Brief for Luminous Baits 

By Hubert C. Norton 

HE was a big bass. I knew that well enough the moment 
he struck my plug with that crashing, splashing sound 
that always sends a thrill along one's spine. After one 
short run along the shore, he went into the air and then 
came a rush which was not to be stopped as he lunged toward the 
shore, despite my energetic thumbing. 

The storm was over. The sun was down in a haze of purple 
clouds, but a fair wind from the northeast still held and drifted my 
boat. In casting from a square-end boat alone, one has no oppor- 
tunity to use much finesse in manouvering. My bass with uncanny 
prescience fought down-wind toward the shore. "Forty feet, sixty 
feet. I must stop him before he reaches the weeds." So, with fear 
in my heart, I put pressure and yet more pressure on the spool of 
the reel. My line was old. Soft-braided casting lines will not en- 
dure forever. This one snapped within a few feet of my quarry. 

In sorrow and shame for such bungling, I reeled in slowly, the 
wind meanwhile blowing my boat to the edge of the weeds, whither 
the bass had driven. As the end of the line came to my fingers, a 

45 



loud splashing some twenty feet ahead of me drew my attention. 
I looked and saw a commotion going on in a dense patch of lily- 
pads. Then the rippling ceased. But as I looked, I could occasion- 
ally see one particular leaf vibrate in a manner not usual with lily- 
pads. The thought struck home: "He has my plug in his jaw and 
the other hooks are fouled in the weeds." More for confirmation 
of this theory than for anything else, I paddled to the patch of 
lily-pads and, parting them gently, looked into the black depths. 
The water was shallow here, not over six feet, and my wooden 
plug was luminous. Sure enough, there was my bait, and even as 
I peered over the side at it, it moved slightly. Still hooked! 

From my tackle-box I took a treble hook and tied it firmly to 
the handle of my landing net. Then with infinite caution I lowered 
this grappling tackle. Down at the bottom it was dark and no 
amount of scrutiny enabled me to tell how the fish lay. So I just 
thrust for the bait, hoping to catch its hooks. As I touched it a 
water-spout rose in my face and when I "came to" I saw no light 
below, but was aware of a swirling in another patch of weeds. Be- 
ing now determined I went there and this performance was again 
enacted. Once more he escaped, and as I located him I became 
convinced that my methods were wrong. 

It was now almost dark and the breeze had fallen. With no 
thought but to get that bass, I fixed the boat carefully to the oars 
pushed into the mud bottom and, slipping off my clothes, went 
overboard on the side away from the bass. Working carefully 
around, I took a breath and went below. I am not an experienced 
diver, but in six feet of water it was not difficult to dive to 
bottom, and with a quick grab, try for the bait which looked under- 
water as large as a bag of meal. My aim was true. I grasped the 
bait firmly, and as the commotion began I became aware of what 
I had previously overlooked ; that hooks will cut human as well as 
piscatorial flesh. That fish was big. He pulled me under several 
times. I decided that I would let him go, but the hooks were faith- 
ful. One must try this game to really appreciate my difficulties. 
This way and that way we plunged and after an eternity I caught 
the boat with my free hand. 

After this it was only a matter of cutting out five hooks from 
the palm of my hand and going home to be greeted with cries of 
"Fish story!" But on the scales that night he weighed six and a 
quarter pounds — not bad for a large-mouth even. Oh, yes! I still 
have that bait — I have a new line — and I also have five cute little 
scars to remind me of it all. 

46 



At the Other End of the Line 

By M. M. Scheid 

A TROUT is intelligent but surely it knows very little of the 
world outside the water, and no doubt you, like many 
others, have often wondered what must be its thought 
- when it finds itself caught. The story, as told by this four- 
pound rainbow, may give you some idea of that terrible feeling. 
"One morning I was hungry and my neighbors acted as though 
they hadn't a meal for a week and I said to myself that the best look- 
ing breakfast that came down stream I was going to have. I got 
ready for a 'grab' when along came a nice big worm and before I 
could say 'thank you,' Specks above me had the whole thing. I 
became angry and I guess that I frightened all my neighbors because 
when, a minute later, another fat worm came dangling, no one but 
myself moved. I picked up my meal and started to say some 
sarcastic thing when bing! that worm left my mouth and liked to 
have ripped out a dozen teeth. I became frightened and crawled 
into my den and my appetite left me almost as quickly as that worm 
did and it wasn't until evening, when I saw white flies flirting near 
the water, that my appetite came back. I sampled several of these 
insects and they were fine. It got a little dark and to see better and 
— I'm ashamed to admit it — to get ahead of my friends, I re- 
mained out in the stream and when a big white moth suddenly fell 
right over my nose I grabbed it. I can't quite remember what 
happened during the next second. It seemed though, as though I 
had accidentally bitten into a barbed wire and my neck cracked. 
That moth was tough and had a horn that stuck through my upper 
lip and I couldn't spit out the thing and it seemed to try to get 
away from me and couldn't. 

"That was 'some strong' bug. I simply had to pull it up stream 
and then down. I tried to get under the bank but it refused to 
go there and then I tried to rub it off on a root. That moth even 
drew me to the surface and believe me, I made the water fly and I 
made up my mind that if I got rid of the thing I'd have to stay 
where I could breathe. I had often seen men and knew that a few of 
my neighbors suddenly left the water when they were around and 
that night I thought I saw a man near shore and that helped frighten 
me. Have you any idea what capers a fellow will do when he has 
some disagreeable food in his mouth, that he can't spit out and 
besides is both 'mad' and 'scared'? Well, I did them all and when 

47 



I saw that it didn't do any good I 'kinda' gave in to the thing on 
my lip and I seemed to get sick. I had to rest and while doing so 
that fly again drew me to the surface and when I touched the air 
I suddenly made a dive and I heard something snap and though 
the moth still stuck, it seemed to have suddenly died. I 'beat' it for 
down stream and now eat in deeper water and every time I catch a 
moth I wonder what that terrible 'darn' was I heard from shore 
when I suddenly got relief from that cussed bug." 



Golf Balls as Bass Bait 

By E. F. Lapham 

THE following is one of the most unique fishing incidents 
that has ever been my privilege to experience. 
The summer of 1917 was passed by my family and my- 
self at Medicine Lake, Three Lakes, Wisconsin. To my joy 
a telegram was received saying my friend, W. C. Whitney of Ohio, 
was on his way to the Pacific Coast and would drop in on us for a 
few days' fishing. We met him on schedule and found he had his 
golf clubs with him, as he expected to play with friends at the 
Coast. It was immediately decided to arrange a temporary golf 
ground. We laid out a sort of fairway up a trail through the 
woods and made a sand putting-green in front of the camp. As 
the camp was located on a point some forty feet above the water, 
we did our driving off into the lake with floaters, which my son 
would retrieve in the rowboat and toss them back on the bank. 
Now for the fish story. 

One morning we started our driving match, driving the golf 
balls off into the lake, and one of the balls disappeared entirely 
after it struck the water with the usual splash. I suggested we had 
made a mistake and used a sinker, when suddenly a fish was seen 
floating, evidently "all in." My son rowed up and lifted it in his 
hands, and then to our surprise held up a good-sized black bass 
and said: "Here's your golf ball." This proved to be true, for 
using his knife he soon recovered the lost ball which the bass had 
struck at as it hit the water. The ball had stuck in its mouth or 
throat so it could not use its gills and consequently it had either 
suffocated or drowned. 

48 

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